


Inopinate

by Abidos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sad, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abidos/pseuds/Abidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People will keep surprising you.  Even if you are a DI with years of experience or a minor government official.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Running had never been a favourite activity of Greg.  This would suggest that becoming a copper might not have been the best of career choices.  Although making detective inspector and being in charge of his own team had greatly reduced the running component in his life.  This only made the question as to why he was running through the oppressive tunnels of the tube to be on time to meet Mycroft, even bigger.

He checked his watch after dodging an old granny arguing vehemently with a shaken looking security woman.  If he could keep this up until he got to the café, he’d make it just in time.  His side protested.  Perhaps the near future should hold a little more gym and a little less doughnut.  Not that he didn’t have a good reason for being tardy (work).  Or that Mycroft had ever made an issue of it whenever Greg had been late.  It was rather the nagging feeling in the back of his mind whenever he spend time with the older Holmes.  That somewhere, important things were going really wrong because Mycroft was choosing to sit in a dingy café with Greg, as opposed to doing whatever it was he normally did.  The unimpressed looks he got from the interchangeable, impeccably dressed women, who materialized with a black luxury car the moment Mycroft needed to be driven anywhere, didn’t help.

For years, Greg had been more or less aware that Sherlock had an older sibling.  It had started with a phone call in the middle of the night, shortly after he had started to allow an ex(probably)-junky, who apparently knew how to read minds, help him with a case.  Greg’s brain hadn’t yet been completely operational when a male voice with a posh accent started to fire of questions.  Regarding the case, the junky (ex!), Greg’s current position in the Yard and some incidents in Greg’s past he had been convinced had stayed between him,  a bottle of scotch, the sofa of some godforsaken motel somewhere in the south and Freddie Mercury.  After hanging up the inspector had surprised himself by realising he had answered every question. Not doing so hadn’t even occurred to him.

The next time he heard the voice was in the middle of a very hectic working day.  It had told him to take his team to a particular address, now.  Greg had answered that that was impossible, especially if he didn’t get a reason why. The voice had tskd and hung up. Five minutes later his chief superintendent had stormed into his office, ordering him and his team to the place, now, and what the hell have you got yourself involved in now, Lestrade?!   Greg had wondered about that himself, until they arrived at a decaying brick factory to find a group of human traffickers and a very pissed of Sherlock, gagged and bound to a chair.

The next time he hadn’t hesitated.  The calls had netted him two kidnappings, a drugs ring, three murderers and a vacation in Dartmoor, including interesting outing in the woods with free hallucinogenics.  And twice, he had been specifically told to go alone, a passed out Sherlock with a needle in his arm. 

After some time and a lot of probing Sherlock for information, he had a few images of a tall man in an expensive suit at the edge of his crime scenes and some obscure mumblings that seemed allude to a Grisham or, possibly, a James Bond movie.

That had been all until the funeral.  Sherlock’s funeral.

More people had turned up then Greg had expected.  Sherlock might not have had many friends but he had helped many.  A lot of his clients had turned up, either to swear the papers were wrong, and how would Sherlock have arranged for uncle Bob to bludgeon aunt Sophie, or maybe just to take a look at the media circus.  They were expressing their condolences to John.  Most seemed to be under the impression him and Sherlock had been a couple.  Greg saw a vein in John’s temple starting to throb and realised that the doctor was about to break down or throttle someone, or perhaps both.  He said goodbye to Molly (she had been acting very strangely during the entire funeral) to rescue John, but Mrs Hudson beat him to it.  She grabbed the man’s arm and asked, with a bit more drama then the occasion required, to be taken outside since she was feeling a bit faint.  She had smiled at Greg when they had passed next to him.

That was when he had seen him.  A tall, dark figure, alone, outside on the veranda.  It was impossible not to notice the similarities, the pose, the look in the eyes, how he held his head and pursed his lips.  It could be no one but Sherlock’s brother.  The wrongness of the situation had twisted Greg’s stomach in a knot and he had gone outside.  The man had been smoking and there had been an alarming amount of cigarettes in the ashtray on the windowsill.  He had been looking at the garden of the funeral home, and Greg had been painfully reminded of the expression Sherlock got… used to get, when his brain was going a thousand miles per hour, putting all the pieces together.

He had started by clearing his throat.

“Mr Holmes, I’d like to express my condolences and those of Scotland Yard, for your loss.  Your brother’s help was invaluable in a number of cases and …”

Greg’s voice had died out.  Holmes had turned towards him but the inspector might as well have been air.  The tall man had seemed to look right through him, with a mystified expression on his face.  He had blinked twice slowly and only then had seemed to notice Greg.

“Right, Inspector, yes, thank you.  I very much appreciate the… sentiment.”

He had lit another cigarette and turned back to the garden.  Greg had seen ice statues expressing more emotion than that.  Another family trait, he had guessed.  He had followed the man’s line of sight.

“They seem to be doing nicely.”

“Hmm? Pardon me?”  At last, Holmes had truly focused on him.

“The …Lilac, I think?  They are blooming nicely.”  He had nodded towards the blossoms.

The man had looked back.

“Ah, no, I wasn’t looking at the flowers.”

“It seemed so to me.” The inspector had offered with a grin.

“I was looking at the bees.”  Holmes had explained.

“Bees?”

The man had nodded and smiled.  At least, Greg had assumed it was a smile.  The corners of his mouth had been more or less moving upwards.  Except, at that moment, the Detective Inspector hadn’t been able think of single thing that looked sadder and filled with more self-hatred. 

Holmes had lowered his head and swallowed hard.  When he had looked back up any emotion had been gone from his face.  Greg had felt a chill going down his spine.  He hadn’t said another word but had stayed until they had been called to lay Sherlock to rest.

As they had walked towards the grave, he had made a point of staying near the older Holmes and had gotten frustrated as they had been slowly but surely relegated to the back of the group.  He had been about to say something about it, but the man next to him hadn’t seemed to mind, hadn’t even taken notice of the funeral.  As they had stood by the grave (Greg hadn’t even been able to see the casket, or the gravestone) Holmes had kept looking away, to a nearby bush of… something with flowers.  There had been more bees.

They had stayed as the people had slowly started to leave.  In the end it had been just the four of them.  Them two, John, and Mrs Hudson.  Holmes had still been looking at the bees.  Long moments had passed until he’d suddenly turned around and walked away, without as much as a glance at his brother’s tomb.

Greg had followed him to the parking lot where a black Mercedes had been waiting.  As they had gotten closer, a pretty Lebanese woman had gotten out and had opened the back door.  When he had gotten to the car, Holmes had turned around, nodded at him and then had started to get inside.

“Wait!” The words had blurted out before Greg had even been able to think about stopping them.  The man had looked up questioningly.

“Would you like to go for a drink? Or something?”

Sherlock’s brother had gazed at him impassively for a long time.  At least it had seemed long to Greg, who had been so convinced he’d get a no, the yes had taken a while to penetrate.  Finally, the Lebanese woman had cleared her throat and had gestured him to get in the car.

Greg couldn’t really say what had made him behave like that.  Or rather, he could but preferred not to.  It was guild.  He had seen suicides before, and what it did to the people around it.  There even had been one in his unit a few years ago and had the things he had more or less picked up on the street explained to him in very expensive words by a short woman who seemed to be permanently cross.

He knew Sherlock had been the one to decide to jump of that building.  That if there was anyone smart enough to find a reason to keep going it should have been Sherlock bloody Holmes.  He knew all that, and he still couldn’t shake the feeling that if he had handled things differently, the man would have never ended up on that rooftop. 

And the funeral had been wrong.  It had been wrong that nobody there knew or cared about Sherlock’s only brother, that he had been standing alone outside, smoking and looking at insects.  That he had been pushed to the back of a crowd of people who hadn’t known Sherlock for more than a few hours.  It was all wrong and Greg had desperately needed to make something right.


	2. Chapter 2

He stumbled into the café a little out of breath. Okay, a lot.  After the little dots of light stopped dancing in front of his eyes, he looked around and spotted Mycroft nearly in the back.  He looked perfectly put together in a charcoal suit with purple silk tie, and perfectly out of place among the regular patrons.  Greg collapsed in the chair in front of him and started to apologise between gasps.  Mycroft waved the apology away and looked amused as the detective regained his breath.

“Don’t look so smug, I’m sure you’d look worse if you’d just ran here.”

“I’m certain, which is why I procure an ample margin of time to arrive at my appointments.”

“Oh, I wonder why I didn’t think of that.” He replied with a grin and turned around to order himself a coffee.

 When he turned back Mycroft was sipping his drink.

“There is something weighing on your mind, something you wish to tell me.”

It was a statement, not a question.  Greg wasn’t surprised, he’d realised long ago Mycroft was at least as observant as his brother had been.  Although it was hard to tell, because he rarely let it show.  Well, he usually did.

“Er, nah, nothing … Did you see that thing in the news yesterday…”

He didn’t think for a moment his denial would fool Mycroft but the man let it slide and conversation flowed easily between them.  There actually was something Greg wanted to ask, and it had worried him until the dash across the city had pushed it from his mind.  There really was no reason to be nervous.  There was, well… ,no, not really… except there was. Yeah…

The thing was Mycroft.  And the way they got along.  Which was great.  Yeah.   Greg was convinced that things were a lot simpler than he thought they were, but he just didn’t seem to be able to get his ideas straight.  So, Mycroft.  Easily one of his best mates now.  And no one was more surprised about that than Greg himself.  Except, maybe, Mycroft.  But if that was the case, the man had never shown.

After the funeral, Greg had taken him to his very bar, and they had proceeded to empty it of any liquor containing even the smallest percentage of alcohol.  A least that was Greg’s general, if what blurred, impression.   At the beginning, the government official had barely said a word, seldom reacting to Greg’s remarks.  In the good tradition of funerals everywhere, the detective had started to reminiscence about Sherlock and, eventually, Mycroft had thawed, occasionally snorting at some of his brother’s more shocking actions.  At the very end he had even told some of his own, from long ago when they had both been children.  Finally, Greg had gotten the story of the bees, which was silly and childish, and utterly heart breaking in light of recent events.  Greg was pretty sure he had cried, although he would deny it until the day he died.

He didn’t remember getting home.  What he did remember was the next day, after his head had stopped hammering and he was able to recall what had happened the night before.  He had been completely taken off guard by the realization that the Holmes brothers were, well, human.  And it was such a stupid thing to realise, because of course they were.  They were definitely flawed enough; Sherlock had been an insufferable arse with the ego the size of the moon and more easily offended than a whet cat.  And Mycroft, well, really, anonymous, somewhat threatening phone calls must be among the worst possible ways to ask for a favour from people who worked with your brother.  It clearly worked for him, but seriously.

Yet somehow, Greg had realised, he had always thought about them as being somehow above humanity, had never measured them with the standards he had for everyone else.  But under all his haughtiness Sherlock had had his own demons to battle with, and when the world had turned against him, he had taken the cowards way out.  And for all his composure and omnipotence Mycroft had been left, like family members always were, with a broken heart filled with tainted memories, regrets and recriminations.

When he eventually returned to the yard, he had found a file on his desk with pictures and credit card information that more or less solved one of the cases he was handling.  When he had gotten home, he had called Mycroft and asked him if he’d be interested in a repeat performance next weekend.  It had become a regular thing and one day Greg realised he now had the grand total of two non-work-related friends.  He discovered he enjoyed Mycroft’s wit and his take on things.  He enjoyed that, when they didn’t agree, which was often, he could argue without making Greg feel like a moron.  And if he offered an insight in to a case, he did it without sounding like he was dealing with someone with severe brain damage.

He began to realise Mycroft wasn’t as inscrutable as he would have everyone believe.  Or maybe he was just letting his guard down around him.  The detective noticed a familiar glint in his eye when he offered the government official a particularly hairy problem, and a little smug pull of his lips when he latter heard that he had been right.  Greg had to stop himself from only talking about work with Mycroft.  Even though he really enjoyed the satisfaction the man seemed to get out of solving his cases.  He didn’t want him to think he was only being taped for his knowledge, as some type of replacement for Sherlock.

And that was the problem.  He enjoyed Mycroft’s company, and didn’t want to do anything to screw it up.  Now, with someone else it wouldn’t be a problem, but Mycroft…  Maybe it was a Holmes thing.  Despite being more subtle about it, Greg was sure Mycroft’s opinion about anything related to emotions wasn’t all that different than Sherlock’s had been.  He usually talked about them as if they were foreign countries.  He also never brought up anything personal and got freakishly polite whenever Greg asked.  The detective was worried that just asking the question would go to far.  He had tried to convince himself that it wasn’t important.  If it could risk his friendship he would simply not ask, no biggie.  Except it was.  It had been almost a year since his divorce and it was really time to move on. He wanted someone in his life.  And Mycroft had gotten really important for him.  He had to ask.  He’d be kicking himself for years if he chickened out.  He took a deep breath.

“Mycroft, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

The government official put down his mug and looked at him quizzically.

“You have reached a decision, I gather?”

“Yeah, sorry about that, I wasn’t trying to… be difficult or anything.”  He scratched his head and grinned apologetically.

“Quite all right.  Please, proceed.”

“Yeah, first I wanted to say that… if this … isn’t something you want to talk about, if it crosses some kind of line…”

Mycroft seemed to go still and lifted one eyebrow.

“I mean, I know you don’t really… talk about stuff like this, maybe you’re not even interested in it or… you know... at all.”  Greg started fidgeting with the cutlery on the table.  “Not that there would be anything wrong if you didn’t, really, I’m not one to judge. I mean …”

The other man did not move but Greg thought he saw a hint of a smile playing around his lips.

“What I mean to say was that…  I really enjoy our time together.  If this isn’t something… you know, just say so and I won’t bring it up ever again.  I wouldn’t want it to… end this… if you know what I mean… sorry, I kinda sound like a chick flick.”

When it became clear that Greg wasn’t opening his mouth again until he got some type of answer, Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened his cuffs.

“I can assure you, Gregory, that I share your feeling.  I thoroughly enjoy your company and would regret to see our association come to an end.  I also have some difficulty imagining something you might reveal that would move me to do so.  I had hoped that by now you felt comfortable enough in my presence not to feel the need to censure yourself.”

Mycroft leant forward and looked at the detective intently.

“That’s not.. I mean… great.  That you.. I … okay.”  He took a deep breath.  His stomach had twisted itself into a knot.  “I wanted to ask you…” he swallowed.  “What do you think about me asking Molly out on a date?”

Mycroft froze, he didn’t even blink, but Greg saw the wheels turning at full speed behind his eyes.

“She works at Bart’s… I think I’ve mentioned her before.  She was at Sherlock’s funeral…”

Mycroft unfroze with a jolt, his face cautiously blank.

“Yes, Miss Hooper.  We have met on occasion.”  He paused for a second, studying Greg’s face. “You wish to pursue an intimate relationship with her?  I was under the impression she was infatuated with my brother.”

“Yes…, well, used to.  She already started dating before he… before he died.  We have been talking, I think she’d be open to the idea…”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“I understand.” He liked his lips in a little nervous gesture. “On what exactly did you want my input?  I must confess that these matters are clearly beyond my scope of expertise.”

“Ah, well…” Greg thought he could see that Mycroft was uncomfortable with the subject, although he didn’t seem to want to show it.  “it’s just… as you said, she used to have a thing for Sherlock… and then she dated that guy that turned out to be a master criminal… so …  She clearly has a thing for young, attractive and very intelligent blokes. And, well…” Greg looked at him apologetically “I’m not … good looking… or young… or smart.  So… I… do you think I have a shot?”

Mycroft looked at him intently for a few seconds and pursed his lips.

“Gregory you are easily one of the best men I know.  You are kind, and if that is admirable in itself, it is more so, given all you are exposed to on a daily basis.  You are loyal to a fault, in disregard of your own wellbeing, even when the object of that loyalty is unworthy. Your sense of justice goes well beyond the realm of reason and you have such wealth of patience not even my brother could hope to deplete it.  And these are just a few of the more outstanding of the myriad of virtues you possess. You are smart. Hush, I have not finished.” He gave Greg a meaningful look as the detective had started to protest.  “You _are_ intelligent, as your stellar career attests.  Perhaps not in the same degree as my brother or myself, although I would argue, for as far as personal relationships are concerned, this to be an advantage.  And if you believe yourself to be unattractive then you and I will have to engage in a very comprehensive debate regarding the ideal of beauty as incarnate in the male body.”

Greg grinned self-consciously.

“Miss Hooper has always stricken me as an intelligent woman, with large amounts of common sense, although not, perhaps, concerning her romantic entanglements.  Regardless, I am convinced that she is aware of your many merits and of the fact that anyone you deem worthy of your attentions would count themselves very fortunate.”

Mycroft took another sip of his cup and looked at him in a way that remembered Greg of Sherlock, whenever someone dared to question his deductions.

“So… that’s a yes, then?” He realised he must be grinning like an idiot and felt his ears lighting up.

“I cannot think of a single reason why your advances would be unwelcome.”

“Yeah… remind me to ask you to write me a letter of commendation if I ever need to look for another job... or apply for a knighthood or something.”

Mycroft grinned sardonically.

“One does not apply for a knighthood.”

Greg smiled.

“Yeah, well…”  Greg was quiet for almost a minute.  “Did I tell you we found another overdosed girl?  With the same stuff as the other three and the same marks.  We’re starting to consider the possibility of a murderer using the drug to mask the real cause of death.”

Mycroft seemed relieved at the change in the topic of conversation and they chatted amicably for little over an hour until the government official made his excuses and left.  Greg started to walk back to his apartment, deep in thought.

That had gone well, hadn’t it?  His worries that Mycroft might be annoyed with him for bringing up a personal and intimate subject seemed ridiculous now.  He remembered some of the things he had said and Greg felt himself starting to blush all over again.  He couldn’t have been serious, right? Except Mycroft would seem to be the last person from whom he would expect dishonest flattery… still. … well.  On the other hand, he couldn’t shake the feeling things weren’t right.  He knew the sensation; he often got it during a case, when he was sure he was missing a very important fact that was just right in front of him, if only he could get his brain to function properly.   After digging a bit he realised he felt disappointed.  But why?  Had he expected Mycroft to talk him out of it?   It couldn’t be that, he was more than fed up with being alone.  He kept seeing Mycroft’s blank face, the way he wet his lips and looked away, kept hearing his words in his head.  As if his subconscious was trying to tell him something.  Mycroft had been supportive of his idea, right? More than supportive, even when he clearly didn’t like the subject.  And despite the man’s claims, Greg trusted his judgement completely.  Again, he saw the image of Mycroft wetting his lips and he mimicked the motion unconsciously.  If only…

He looked up confused when he realised he wasn’t in his neighbourhood.  He was standing in front of Molly’s building.  He hadn’t planned on… but, well.  And Mycroft thought it was a good idea, right?  And he was here, so he might as well.  He decided to leave and approach Molly tomorrow, at work.  Less stalkery.  Only he walked up to the door and rang.  And then immediately turned around and would have walked away if he hadn’t seen a slick black car turn the corner and enter the street.  He looked on stupefied as the car parked in front of him and one of Mycroft’s bull-necked drivers got out, walked around the car and opened the back door.  The man took out a very large bouquet of colourful flowers and handed it over to the detective.  He nodded at Greg.

“Good luck, sir”

Then he stepped back into the car and drove away.  The wide-eyed detective was still watching it turn the corner when he heard a voice behind him.

“Greg?”

He turned around and saw Molly standing there, her arms filled with grocery backs.

“It is you!  I wasn’t sure… oh, those flowers are beautiful, are you going to see someone?”

Greg looked nonplussed at the bouquet in his arms and then handed them to Molly.  She let out a surprised little yelp and took them, with the result of two of her bags falling on the ground and spilling their content over the stones.  Greg fell to his knees and started to pick everything up, cursing in his head.  Molly kneeled next to him, still clutching the flowers and trying to help.  After a lot of scrambling and apologies from both of them they emerged, Greg with his arms filled with cat food-cans and two cartons of milk.  Molly was flushed and kept looking at the flowers.

“Are... are these for me?”

The detective only managed to nod.

“Tulips and lilies… how did you know they were my favourites?”

Greg shrugged non-committedly.  He was really hoping his brain would decide to take control of the situation at some point.  Molly blushed an even deeper red.

“Would you… like to come in?  We could have a cup of tea.”

He nodded and followed her inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really sure why the characters I love the most are always the ones that end up screwed. Probably has something to do with my mam. The last chapter is from Mycroft's point of view and things will get better for him. A bit.
> 
> English isn't my native language, so I apologise for any mistakes and would be grateful if someone pointed them out for me.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft watched the familiar country view pass by through the window of his car.  He would be at the manor in a few minutes.  Some far-off part of his mind noted with some interest that, despite having lived there for almost his entire life, he did not think of it as a home.  He considered the notion dispassionately for an instant while he pulled out his watch.  By now, the bouquet would have been delivered to the inspector in front of Miss Hooper’s apartment.  Or, perhaps not.  It had become painfully apparent that, at least for as far as the detective inspector was concerned, his normally meticulously accurate understanding of the human psyche was, well, entirely of the mark.

He considered filling his glass again.  He wanted to, which in itself already constituted reason enough not to.  He put the thing away and resumed his disinterested inspection of the landscape.  The majestic manors with their gardens and the uncultivated woodland appeared dull and wearisome to him.  The perfect companion for his dreary inner life.  He realised that this was a rather novel experience for him.  His mind was never idle.  Even when he was not, at one point, directing his considerable intellect at some convoluted matter of State, he was always aware of some minor thought processes, working in the background, analysing information, comparing, deducing, remembering and associating. 

He had never understood his brother’s propensity to boredom.  There was always something new to contemplate, and a myriad of ways of contemplating it, or relating it to other information, opening up novel worlds of possibilities to be scrutinized.  His brain was never still, yet now it was, deafeningly so.  It was not a simple absence of thought.  It was as if the emptiness had a weight of itself, smothering any notion at its birth, leaving the few who managed to form to echo forlornly through the vacant chambers of his mind.

He wondered if this was how ordinary people felt, all the time.  He wondered if this was how his brother felt, when there was no immediate dilemma to stimulate him.  If so, it made the extremes to which he resorted in order to alleviate the boredom somewhat easier to comprehend. 

Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would be appalled by the situation.  Now it suited him just fine.  He knew his brain, he knew his mind.  Once the whole thing started functioning again, it would ruthlessly analyse everything that had happened during the last few hours, ever since it had shut down in the bar.  It would evaluate, extrapolate, offer previsions, correct impressions, dash expectations and, finally, present a long and exhaustive analysis of what exactly it all meant to Mycroft, and what it said about him.  He was quite satisfied with the temporary cease of activity.  So much so, that he seriously considered prolonging the state with copious amounts of alcohol, once he reached the privacy of his own rooms.

The car stopped, and after a few seconds the chauffeur opened his door.  He took his suitcase and umbrella and stepped out.  After nodding to the woman, he went up the steps to the front door and let himself inside.

As he was putting away his coat, he heard noise coming from the living room.  He sighed fastidiously.  Really, he did not want to deal with him, on top of everything else.  Why couldn’t he be in the cellar, distilling explosives from great aunt Miriam’s wine collection?  Or in the crypt, desecrating the remains of their ancestors.  Usually it was a source of fraternal pride, that the one person he could not fool, at least not for long, was his brother.  Today he would have been very grateful where he capable of avoiding Sherlock’s scrutiny.  No chance of that now.   His brother had been confined to the manor for almost two months, with no one to deduct but Mycroft.  It did not bother him; rather, it was just an escalation of their regular game, with Mycroft throwing in the occasional gesture or comment to confound his brother.  There had been two weeks in June when Sherlock had seriously considered the possibility that he really was a psychopath set on world domination.  Three weeks later he had managed to have him believe for one day he was manipulating London’s traffic lights to maximise the time its citizens spend held up and stimulate the stock market.  Usually the game was reciprocal, but there were only so many variations on “everything was dreadfully mundane, hid from the staff, did unmentionable things to family heirlooms”.

The probability of Sherlock leaving the issue alone was nil.  He was bored, very bored if he had resorted to, if Mycroft’s hearing did not deceive him, throwing knifes at the portrait of their great great great grandfather.  Mycroft listened until he heard the sound again.  Throwing them accurately, which thankfully meant Sherlock still had not resorted to narcotics to alleviate the monotony. 

He took a deep breath and braced himself.  Then he opened the door and walked into the main living room.  Sherlock was draped over one of the bergères. 

“Did you finally ask him?  Your fixation is becoming insufferable.”

Mycroft ignored the question and continued towards the kitchen.  Predictably, after a few seconds, he heard his brother scramble out of the chair and follow him barefoot.  He had just turned on the kettle when his brother stormed through the door.

“What has happened? Is there news? Something is wrong.  Did something happen to John?” Sherlock demanded.

“Do you want tea, brother?” Mycroft replied dryly.

Sherlock glared at him and tried to read the answers of his face and hands. Mycroft sighed.

“Nothing has happened, Sherlock.  John is perfectly all right, they all are.”

Sherlock relaxed somewhat but continued to inspect him.  He probably had a minute or two of reprieve, before his brother would realise what the cause of his demeanour was and would start with the taunts and the mocking.  His brother’s aim was perfect when it came to pinpointing someone’s weakness, an admirable trait in a person who seemed oblivious to most human affections. It posed no real predicament to Mycroft.  It was how his brother communicated, and much preferred over being ignored all together.  After many years, he had become somewhat impervious to the slights about his weight, his looks, his sexuality, his decisions or his moral fibre. Besides, it was not as if Mycroft’s own ability to identify sore spots and exploit them was lacking.  Today, however, he would rather do without his brother enumerating in merciless detail each reason why any form of reciprocation from the detective was unfeasible, and how preposterous it had been to even entertain the idea of a different outcome.

As Mycroft waited for the kettle to boil his brother kept inspecting him.  At one point Sherlock grabbed his jaw and lifted his face to be able to look him in the eyes.  He let out an exasperated sigh and pushed his brother’s hand aside.

“Really, Sherlock?  One would expect that working as a private detective would require a bit more finesse.”

“I am a _consulting_ detective, not a private detective, as you are well aware.”

“Of course, little brother.” Mycroft answered with his most conciliatory tone.  Nothing riled Sherlock more up than when he was agreeable.  Perhaps he could get him irritated enough that he would stalk away and go sulk in his room, or the basement, or the mausoleum.

“This has to do with Lestrade, doesn’t it?  Your infatuation with the man has made you even more insufferable than usually.  I told you to speak to him, that way I would no longer have to see you ambling purposely through the house like some sullen walrus, wretched wailing included.”

“Honestly Sherlock, your propensity to abuse the hyperbole is getting slightly out of hand, don’t you think? I do not amble or wail…”

“You sit around, gazing forlornly into the distance fondling that keepsake of his.”

“I certainly do not!”

“What you have not done is deny this ridiculous fixation of yours.”

Mycroft frowned and took out two mugs and a box of earl grey.  Sherlock bit his lip and continued.

“I am not denying that there are certain… advantages to having a companion.  And since you insist on sating those degenerate appetites of yours, it makes sense to get one with whom to satisfy them…  The pining is really distasteful but…”

“Sherlock, please, I did not “pin”.  I merely entertained the possibility of …”

“You are using past tense.”

Mycroft cursed under his breath as the water boiled.  He started to prepare their drinks.

“Gregory has confided me his intention of courting Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock went silent for a few seconds.

“Molly?!”

Mycroft did not feel the need to elaborate.  He turned around and threw away the teabag.

“That makes no sense. I have seen you two together.  I followed you three weeks ago to that atrocious bar.  He was making ghastly doe eyes at you, and laughing, and rubbing his neck the way he does when he is near someone he feels attracted to.  The whole scene was nauseating and put me of my food for the rest of the day.”

“Yes, well, it seems we were both mistaken in that regard.”

He picked up the two mugs and walked back to the living room.  He placed them on one of the tables and, after removing a wide assortment of cutlery from his chair, sat down.  As he heard his brother’s footsteps coming down the hall, he steeled himself.  Sherlock walked past him, leaving something on the table and took the seat in front of him, pulling up his legs.

Mycroft turned his head and saw a pack of biscuits, the type with chocolate chips.  Sherlock must have bought them, since his diet did not allow for them.  He looked back at his brother, expecting some sort of scorching remark about his weight. 

Sherlock was firmly avoiding his eyes, nursing his mug. 

Mycroft took one of them and ate it, not removing his eyes from Sherlock.  After a minute he relaxed and they both started to drink their tea in silence. 

Long minutes passed until any of them spoke again.

“I always said the man was a moron.” Sherlock offered.

Mycroft nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done!
> 
> English is not my first language, so please feel free to point out any mistakes.

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, so I apologise for any mistakes. if you see any (either not proper English or not proper British-English) I'd be very grateful if you'd let me know.
> 
> Thank you for reading.
> 
> P.S. Lilac because I wrote that part on the 25th of May.


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